[ cutting through the brimming, broiling vat of existential crises being circulated like a pot of overboiled spaghetti on the edge of a yawning cliff: the sharp cry of someone who's possibly just stepped off over said edge and is now enjoying a rapid free-fall towards some unknown end. at least, kaveh thinks, he will be rather happy once he impacts the proverbial ground, so long as said proverbial ground is made of slightly loose factory-standard stitching with just enough colour-bleed to suggest that nothing in this city is perfect. perfect enough, but not perfect. the knit dress is carefully removed from its rack as kaveh double-checks his finding, then for good measure, taking a second, stitch-perfect knit dress, because you can't be too careful about providing a control for whatever it is you're trying to prove. he comes out with an armful of blues and whites, the titian sunset of his eyes bright with something something both electric and eclectic as he thoughtlessly descends upon the first person he sees.
that person is gregor. gregor deserves better. but kaveh doesn't have better - kaveh has three days of no sleep and a mind akin to a slippery bar of soap on a hot summer's day. the exuberant joy speaks to something like mania, midnight coffee runs and an undergrad's terror of an insubstantial upcoming deadline. kaveh holds up the white and blue dress. he crows: ] The stitching isn't perfect after all. Look here, [ here, the tilted proximity of the dress says, ] a bit of the blue is bleeding into the white, a single off-stitch as if someone had imagined it from memory through sheer remembered rage. I would be too, if I had a dress like this with a visible flaw like that, but this is either proof that there is individualisation in this city, or that someone had come in through here and pricked a stitch just to be mean about it. That -
[ ends there, actually. the spiral of kaveh's thoughts slips out from under him. it's the man's eyes, kaveh thinks. the far-off stare as if there is something existential coming his way and there's no good way to get off the tracks before it comes trundling along. something prickles along the edges of kaveh's conscience as he lowers the dress, leaning in with a tilt. his brows furrow. kaveh looks. ]
Um. Sorry, I didn't mean to ramble. Or startle you, really. Are you quite alright?
SLIDES IN HERE ON MY KNEES
[ cutting through the brimming, broiling vat of existential crises being circulated like a pot of overboiled spaghetti on the edge of a yawning cliff: the sharp cry of someone who's possibly just stepped off over said edge and is now enjoying a rapid free-fall towards some unknown end. at least, kaveh thinks, he will be rather happy once he impacts the proverbial ground, so long as said proverbial ground is made of slightly loose factory-standard stitching with just enough colour-bleed to suggest that nothing in this city is perfect. perfect enough, but not perfect. the knit dress is carefully removed from its rack as kaveh double-checks his finding, then for good measure, taking a second, stitch-perfect knit dress, because you can't be too careful about providing a control for whatever it is you're trying to prove. he comes out with an armful of blues and whites, the titian sunset of his eyes bright with something something both electric and eclectic as he thoughtlessly descends upon the first person he sees.
that person is gregor. gregor deserves better. but kaveh doesn't have better - kaveh has three days of no sleep and a mind akin to a slippery bar of soap on a hot summer's day. the exuberant joy speaks to something like mania, midnight coffee runs and an undergrad's terror of an insubstantial upcoming deadline. kaveh holds up the white and blue dress. he crows: ] The stitching isn't perfect after all. Look here, [ here, the tilted proximity of the dress says, ] a bit of the blue is bleeding into the white, a single off-stitch as if someone had imagined it from memory through sheer remembered rage. I would be too, if I had a dress like this with a visible flaw like that, but this is either proof that there is individualisation in this city, or that someone had come in through here and pricked a stitch just to be mean about it. That -
[ ends there, actually. the spiral of kaveh's thoughts slips out from under him. it's the man's eyes, kaveh thinks. the far-off stare as if there is something existential coming his way and there's no good way to get off the tracks before it comes trundling along. something prickles along the edges of kaveh's conscience as he lowers the dress, leaning in with a tilt. his brows furrow. kaveh looks. ]
Um. Sorry, I didn't mean to ramble. Or startle you, really. Are you quite alright?